


5 times John and Sherlock are interrupted

by Bloodyloveletters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, A little angst, Fluff, M/M, Work In Progress, a little smut, its just gay, this has no canon in it at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-20 12:44:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9491453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodyloveletters/pseuds/Bloodyloveletters
Summary: "John had only met Sherlock 2 months ago, and although the detective had claimed he was “married to his work” the night they met, John had started to notice things."John and Sherlock's relationship told as a 5+1





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fic, and one of my first times writing, so constructive criticism is welcome and encouraged.

1.

John had only met Sherlock 2 months ago, and although the detective had claimed he was “married to his work” the night they met, John had started to notice things. While at first they had the relationship of strictly colleagues and flatmates, there had been a distinct shift in the way Sherlock looked at him while in 221B. The more comfortable they became with each other, the more he'd notice Sherlock stealing glances at him when he thought he couldn't see. Not necessarily explicit in anyway, just watching his hands as he typed, or the way he'd fidget with his legs on the coffee table when watching the news. But this could be explained easily. Sherlock was constantly watching everyone and was no doubt just making further deductions about what John ate for lunch or how many patients he saw that day. 

There was more, though. Although they kept to their respective armchairs while with clients, on slow days when Sherlock wasn't bouncing off the walls, they'd lounge together on the settee. Perhaps it was in John's imagination but he always felt they would sit little too close for “strictly colleagues and flatmates”. Those nights, while Sherlock shouted at Strictly Come Dancing (about everything from the dancer's footwork to the frivolity of the public vote), were some of best. John wasn't quick to admit it, but he enjoyed Sherlock's company whether in a high adrenaline chase through the streets of London or a night in with a chippy.

He'd been interested in Sherlock straight away. He was well dressed in clothes that suited him and was undeniably attractive. But John had never struggled having good friends who he found attractive in the past and didn't expect to have any problems now. When Sherlock had simply and politely declined his advances, he'd put all thoughts of that sort out of his mind. Until now that is, as Sherlock's touches became increasingly obvious. He would slide a hand across his shoulders as he passed him at the kitchen table, grab him by the biceps when making deductions, pick fluff off the older of his jumpers.

It wasn't long until John began reciprocating these touches. He started with a playful dig in the ribs while on the sofa together, before “rubbing it better” when Sherlock started to sulk. He passed Sherlock his tea and let his fingers linger on the back of his hand. Spurred on by desire, he went as far as pushing stray curl back into place on Sherlock's head while he stared deeply at a newspaper clipping. Sherlock followed this up by removing a stray eyelash from John's cheek. John countered by laying a hand on his knee that evening on the sofa together. Back and forth this went for some days until, shattered after a long day at the surgery, John lay his head on Sherlock's shoulder in front of the telly that night. He was just beginning to regret the move when Sherlock shifted, letting John's head fall on to his chest. A thin but strong arm wrapped around him and John relaxed into the other man's body. He turned his face into the soft cotton t-shirt Sherlock wore to sleep in and felt the smell of his flatmate fill his nostrils. The same fabric softener John used, but mixed with expensive conditioner, cigarette smoke and somehow formaldehyde despite this being his pyjamas. And something else that was inherently Sherlock. It was the first real recognition of what had been building between them and John, had he not been so lost in his own feelings, would have noticed the pace of Sherlock’s heart beating rapidly inside his chest or his slightly laboured breathing, as he tried to take deep breaths without disturbing John lay on his chest.

Neither of them were in the habit of locking their front door. Mrs Hudson was careful with the one leading on to the street, and there was never anything happening in their living room that needed to be kept from her. Plus, despite what she said, if it was left open there's a fairly good chance she would dust or hoover or leave them some of whatever she made for dinner and both of them appreciated this more than they said. This is why she was able to wander in, at 8 o'clock in the evening to offer them some soup. She walked in to find John, legs pulled up onto the sofa and his head resting on Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock gently playing with John's hair, both of them watching the bright images on the screen, but neither of them following whatever might be happening.

Only for a second though, as upon hearing her enter, they jump apart. The spell of the moment had been broken. Mrs Hudson immediately backed out again, reminding them they had a lock, that she was glad they were finally getting on with it and something else about buying ear plugs before she was heading back downstairs. They settled again, not speaking, but sitting further from each other than they had for months. John went to bed very shortly afterwards, but lay awake for at least an hour before resigning to sleep. Sherlock was still sat on the sofa the next morning, pouring over his email, eyes a little red and tired.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get a case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a lot longer than the first chapter... it got a bit out of hand
> 
> Feedback is welcome!

2.  
Sherlock had been thrown by Mrs Hudson’s interruption a few days ago, but he didn't wait too long before falling back into their routine of casual touches. They would lie together on the sofa comfortably, chatting away with Sherlock’s head on John's lap or John's head on Sherlock's chest. It was happy and content and they even allowed it to continue in front of Mrs Hudson, who quickly lost all surprise at seeing them cuddling on the sofa.

They didn't call it that, mind. They weren't cuddling, and they didn't call it anything anyway. There was no conversation to acknowledge they both took comfort from the physical contact of the other. They didn't talk about how Sherlock's mind would stop racing when he was threading his fingers through John's hair, that he could stop seeing quite so much, instead just know that John was there with him.

This continued for a whole week of domesticity, before Lestrade brought them a case worth working. Sherlock's phone buzzed, glancing at the text over John's laptop he'd been looking at since he got up.  
_You'll like this one, Sherlock, and I know you need a case. Natural History Museum asap. Greg_  
After a moment of wanting to turn down the case simply because Lestrade assumed he needed one, he realised he was just being stubborn.  
_On our way. SH_ , he replied, rousing John and grabbing his coat as he rushed down the stairs, heading out into the chilly morning air.

John and Sherlock caught the first taxi that made its way down Baker Street and were quickly across London. It had been a while since a case required a trip to a crime scene, and both sat excitedly in the back of the taxi.  
John broke the comfortable silence. “What's this about then?”  
“Don’t know, Lestrade just texted,”  
“You took a case without knowing what it was about? Have these weeks stuck in the flat with me really been that bad?” his tone teasing the other man, not serious with accusations.  
Sherlock replied with an amused sigh, but spent the rest of the ride thinking about what John had said. He hadn't had a real case in over 2 weeks, and normally he'd be tearing at the walls of 221B without a distraction for this long, and although he'd been relieved to receive the offer from Lestrade, he'd found himself surprisingly calm around John. What did this mean about him and John? He hadn't failed to notice the changes in their interactions and he wouldn't lie to himself and say he didn't welcome the affection of the doctor. But he was thrown by the realisation, that being around John, just being with him, kept him sane as much as any case. He had the same thought John had several weeks before. They were good together, whatever they were doing.

They arrived at the museum which had a few groups of people milling around outside, wondering why they had not been allowed in at opening time. The police cordon probably should've told them that the museum wouldn't be open for a while, that they should go elsewhere, but as usual, people didn't think. Sherlock lifted the police tape for John, who still wasn't really used to their invasion of crime scenes and then passed under himself. They were greeted by Lestrade, who lead them through the museum.  
“That was fast. But I'm not surprised, you've been low on cases recently,” he said pointedly.  
“We weren't busy,” said Sherlock, perhaps too quickly, again considering the thoughts he had in the taxi.

Three bodies had been strung up, high above the floor alongside the enormous blue whale model the museum was famous for. One body had already been brought to the floor, another was still being negotiated down and the third hung limply, a thin metal suspension cord around his waist. This was going to be a strange one Sherlock was pleased to see, glad he hadn't dismissed it for the sake of pissing off Lestrade. He put aside his thoughts of John to examine the scene and decide their next steps.

It did turn out to be a very interesting case. An assassin, involved heavily in London's world of organised crime was attempting to disguise three hits as the act of a random serial killer, and Sherlock didn't struggle to deduce as much within just a few minutes of examining the victims, but it took a whole day of investigation and time with John in order to uncover who ordered and carried out the hits, but it was past one in the morning by the time John convinced Sherlock that, unlike the detective, he needed some sleep to function and that the assassin, who didn't know he was suspected, would still be there when they woke up. Sherlock never slept on a case but he knew there wasn't much he could get done at this time, so retired to Baker Street with John. Inexplicably though, when Sherlock and John finally sat down on the settee together, they were both dozing in seconds, swept up in the warmth of their cozy little flat in central London.

***

Sherlock awoke, his body learnt heavily against John's side and a cold concrete wall behind him. His arm was over John's shoulder awkwardly and he flexed his stiff muscles to awaken them, feeling the cold metal of a hand cuff around his left wrist. The other end was attached to John's right, with the doctor's arm brought across his body in such a way his damaged shoulder would not usually allow, completely unconscious. He was immediately worried about John, untangled their arms so their linked hands were next to each other, but realising there was nothing he could do until he got them out of here, he turned to the room they sat in.

It had been clear to Sherlock that they were no longer in 221B before he'd opened his eyes, the smells and sounds were completely wrong. Besides the smell of John (tea and deodorant and poly-wool mix jumpers), the room was cool and smelt of dying leaves as if it was partially exposed to the elements, dirty with the smell of animals, suggesting it was rarely inhabited by humans. Now he saw natural light was coming in from high above them in an barred opening in the ceiling. Midday or thereabouts, meaning Sherlock had been unconscious for 10 hours. Besides them two, there was a old wooden table, a heavy door, looking like reinforced wood but he couldn't be sure, and bucket in the corner. They sat on thin woollen blanket and Sherlock felt inside his emptied coat pockets. He stomped his outstretched foot against the floor. Solid below, so they were on the lowest level, just one floor below ground surface. The sounds were of a out of town industrial area, likely warehouses, deserted on a Sunday morning, so shouting for help would be fruitless. His head throbbed from dehydration and again he thought of John, still slumped against his side. Fearing causing John more damage, he didn't dare to try to move.

It was several hours, Sherlock estimated two and half, before John awoke, considerably less accustomed to artificial sedatives than Sherlock. He groaned, reaching up and rubbing his gunshot wound.  
“John, are you okay?” Sherlock reached up and held John's face with his free hand, turning his face towards his own, looking in his eyes for signs of damage  
“Sherlock? Where are we?” he said, on edge, upon which Sherlock began running down the deductions he'd made in the hours of silence.  
“Do you think you can stand? I need to look about the room”  
“Yes but why?” John asked, Sherlock replying by raising their joined wrists.

“Hold my hand”  
“What?” John looked bemused and annoyed at Sherlock as he clambered to his feet.  
“Stops the cuffs rubbing,” Sherlock returns, but with the slightest smirk despite the seriousness of their situation.  
After an attempt to use the bucket in the corner, uncomfortable due to the proximity of their linked hands, Sherlock begins dragging John about the room touching every wall and surface making any further deductions he could. Before long though, Sherlock recognised John’s discomfort, so he pushed the table against the wall facing the only door and sat down, guiding John to sit beside him.  
“Well if they wanted to kill us, they needn’t starve us, so I assume someone will be coming for us fairly soon. Within the next 6 hours, possibly waiting until dark to come back,” Sherlock concluded finally. The room was solid and he had no means of breaking them out, especially not with an injured John attached to him.  
John chuckled a little nervously, “It’s always good to look on the bright side I suppose,” before pausing, “we have some time to kill.”

The first hour passed quickly, they talked about past cases and funny stories from the surgery and various other light-hearted topics to keep their minds busy. In the second hour, they began to play the games John enjoyed as a child that had never much interested Sherlock and Mycroft. Eye spy quickly became dull in the empty room and “I went to the shops and I bought...” was next to impossible for John compared to Sherlock’s perfect memory, especially when he was trying to beat, or impress, John. By the 3rd, John was shivering then wincing as shooting pains darted through his shoulder. Sherlock turned John’s body away from him and rubbed his tense shoulder with strong fingers, massaged a small amount of comfort back into the man to his right. He then managed to work his coat off one arm and wrapped the coat tightly around John, but with Sherlock’s arm still trapped inside the other, they were forced to sit closer together. It was in the 4th hour they spoke about their pasts. Sherlock was very matter-of-fact about his addiction and this encouraged John to open up about his time in the army. Being emotionally close in this way brought them comfort in the same way the physical closeness did. After 5 hours, the early spring evening turned chilly and dark and they wrapped the thin blanket tighter about their shoulders.  
“Is anyone coming for us?” asked John, a touch of desperation in his voice.  
Sherlock took his hand in his and said “We’ve been gone at least 18 hours. Mrs Hudson will have noticed 12 hours ago, and Lestrade had all the information about the case. Even if the people who put us here don’t come back tonight, Scotland Yard will find us by morning.”  
He squeezed John’s hand and attempted to overcome his own anxieties for the sake of the man who brought him nothing but comfort.

After 6 hours, as Sherlock expected, the warehouse above them filled with hurried movements and hushed voices. They got up off the table and stood, still holding cuffed hands. John looked up at Sherlock.  
“They’re going to torture us, right? For information?” John said finally.  
“Think so. Only reason to keep us locked up like this,”  
“Right well, I’m glad I’m here with you,” his voice clipped, continuing after a pause, “because I haven’t known you long, but you’ve been good for me. Really good, Sherlock”  
They turned to look at each other fully, and Sherlock noticed the unshed tears in John’s eyes. They heard the noises fill the other room, directly behind the door.  
Once again, he was overcome with the urge to comfort and protect John, so squeezed his hand saying, “You’re the only man I’ve ever truly cared about, John, and you’re good for me too, better than you know.”  
John reached up, moving painfully slowly, placed one hand on the side of Sherlock’s face while standing on his tip toes. Sherlock wasn’t ready, or prepared, or even thinking, but leant in, pushing his lips on to John’s. Before John could even kiss him back, however, there is a thud behind the door, they break apart and it swings open to Lestrade, in a stab vest and gun in hand.  
After a moment’s hesitation, noticing their clasped hands, Greg said, “Oh thank god, you two need to stop disappearing. I can’t even text you for help with the case if you’re the case,” humour and relief in his voice. When John and Sherlock remained still in their own shocked silence, he continued “I’m guessing you need water, and something to eat?”  
John started “Yes, of course. And these?” He said, separating their hands and raising them to indicate the cuffs.  
“Yeah, we’ll get them sorted.”

The first aiders checked them out and sent them home on the promise John would be careful with his shoulder for the next few days. They fell gratefully into the taxi but then sat in silence. Absentmindedly, Sherlock rubbed the dark red marks the cuffs had cut into his wrist.  
“Can I see?” said John, holding out his hand.  
Sherlock placed his hand in John’s and the doctor appeared to inspect it carefully, gently turning Sherlock’s hand over in his. He placed his fingers on Sherlock’s wrist, feeling his pulse rapid and fluttering, and looked up at the other man with concern. But Sherlock was looking back with longing and awe so John kissed him again. It wasn’t heated, but so full of affection that it was only moments before they were both breathless. They pressed their foreheads together, smiling widely, eyes still closed. They rode the rest of the way quiet and thoughtful but content, and fell asleep on the sofa for real that night, comfortable in each other’s arms, pressing kisses to temples and cheekbones and lips. Domestic bliss, something Sherlock never imagined having, or even wanting.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock attend Lestrade's 42nd Birthday party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did I try to write M/M sex?? I'm sorry in advance

3.  
It was over a month later that John was dragging Sherlock to Lestrade’s birthday party.  
“Why do I have to spend the evening in the same building as Donovan pretending we're just flatmates when I could just stay here and kiss you?” Sherlock said with a whine, draped dramatically across his armchair. John looked in the mirror above the mantelpiece and ran his fingers through his hair.  
“Because Greg's your friend, and friends go to each other’s birthday parties.”  
“He didn't come to mine.”  
“That's because no one knows when your birthday is, Sherlock,” John said with a sigh.  
He acted exasperated but secretly agreed with Sherlock. He wasn’t looking forward to this party; the Yarders were rowdier than him and he much preferred smaller, more intimate celebrations. 

John had decided to dress up a little. He didn’t want to admit to this but he was hoping to impress Sherlock. Rather than his usual casual button downs, he went for a sharper pale blue shirt that he tucked into smart jeans. He’d even considered a suit jacket but when he tried it on in his room, he thought he looked too much like he was trying to dress up as Sherlock. No, that's not what he wanted the Yarders think. No one knew about their relationship yet, except Mrs Hudson, although she maintained it had always been like this. 

It really felt like they were living in one of John's day dreams. They were the same as ever through the day - going to crime scenes, seeing clients, solving cases. But at night, they were like any normal couple - living together, sharing meals, sharing a bed. They'd started sharing Sherlock's room only a day after their first kiss, and John couldn't imagine going to sleep without the ridiculously long legged man wrapped around him ever again. But it was moving too fast to think about forevers yet, John knew. Sherlock may only see this as a temporary thing; he'd asked to keep it private after all.

“We need to go, Sherlock,” said John, looking at his watch. Sherlock stood with a flourish. He was wearing his usual shirt with no tie look and the sleeves of his purple shirt John liked so much were pushed up past his elbows. He approached the smaller man slowly, putting his arms around John's waist and pulling him close.  
“Do we though?” Sherlock said slowly, purposefully, “We could always stay here,” he leant in so he talking directly into John's ear, his breath on his neck, “Have an early night,” he trailed off. John swallowed loudly and kissed Sherlock. As John had expected, this was Sherlock’s plan who immediately kissed back with heat, his arms pulling their bodies tight together.  
“Nice try,” John said, Sherlock's forehead still pressed against his own, “Did you really think you could get out of going by kissing me?”  
“No, I thought I could get out of going by fucking you” Sherlock drawled.  
“Well we'll have to wait for that, since our taxi is here” John replied, attempting to disguise the arousal in his voice as he passed Sherlock his jacket.

“Why don’t we get the tube again? It’s much cheaper,” John said, getting in the taxi.  
“I don’t like people.”  
“You like me.”  
“Yes, I like you, John. You’re exceptional, in every sense of the word,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes but kissing John on his cheek before returning to looking at his phone.  
John smiled to himself. It never failed to amaze him how affectionate Sherlock could be, considering how he treated everyone else in his life. It was as if he just needed permission to express his feelings. He placed his hand on Sherlock’s knee.  
“I like you, too”  
Sherlock just laughed, and placed his hand on top of John’s.  
“Sure you don’t want to tell them?”  
“Do you? Because Anderson is going to think it’s hilarious and make fun of you. And Donovan. You know what they think of me,” Sherlock sounded briefly angry.  
John looked quizzical but didn’t press the issue; it was clear Sherlock wasn’t ready to share their relationship. The taxi pulled up outside a medium sized house in Brixton, which had been divided into flats.

Greg Lestrade’s 42nd birthday party was a busy and packed affair in his flat in south London. Sherlock and John had arrived late, so many of the guests, including Lestrade himself, were already smashed. John thought that Greg was probably too old for this loud and messy party but he kept these thoughts to himself as the birthday boy made his way over.  
“Happy Birthday Greg!” said John, elbowing Sherlock.  
“Yeah, happy Birthday,” added Sherlock, after the prompt.  
“Glad you guys could make it, come ‘ere,” Lestrade pulled them both into a tight hug, smelling of whiskey.  
“This is from us” John said, handing over a wrapped present.  
“You’re giving joint presents now?” glancing at them both and laughing, “Really are becoming a married couple.”  
John felt Sherlock tense up next to him and was relieved when Lestrade left to greet some other guests.

After picking up drinks, they headed into the busy living room where sofas had been pushed against the walls. Sherlock sat down heavily, and took out his phone. John did the same but soon sent Sherlock a text.“Game?”  
Sherlock glanced up and saw John smiling mischievously.  
Leaning close to Sherlock, he spoke into his ear so he could be heard over the loud music, “Okay. You have to guess the profession of anyone in the room. If you're right, I drink. If you're wrong, you drink”  
“I'm never wrong John, so you're about to get very drunk,” Sherlock said, taking a sip of his beer looking happier than before.

“Ex-army police officer” Sherlock was right, John drank and pointed out he spotted John's army training when they first met too. John refrained from making a joke about Sherlock’s feelings about men in uniform.  
“Secretary in a bank,” said Sherlock as a woman approached them. A short conversation later revealed she was in fact PA to the head of HSBC's London branch. John drank.  
“Student,” was next, but as John pointed out a police officer in training was not the same, and Sherlock should've known that as he'd met her before. Sherlock drank.  
They switched to liquor, enjoying the game.  
“Journalist,” Sherlock tried next, but she was recently unemployed so Sherlock drank, “I can tell you which women are going to flirt with you too, you know. The woman to your right in the black top.”  
Sherlock was of course right. When she approached and gently touched John's arm, John drank. Sherlock and John giggled throughout her advances though and she was quickly put off by the men caught up in their own game.  
Sherlock turned the face John, “The man in the corner is about to try and play the piano then the woman we just spoke to will kiss him to make him stop.”  
“There's no way you could possibly know that, I'll down the rest of this if you're right,” referencing the full glass of whisky in his hand.  
“Deal,” said Sherlock, holding John by the shoulders and turning him around, as a short, broad man made his way towards the piano.  
“You cock,” said John, watching the events play out then swallowing the whole glass in one.

They were both drunk by the time they entered the kitchen again. This was the most social either had been at a party in a while, and all for the sake of their silly game. Donovan was stood across from them, drunker than they were.  
“Look at the lovebirds, giggling away” she said maliciously.  
“What's your problem with us anyway?” John says loudly, stepping towards her, spurred on my alcohol and adrenaline.  
“I don’t have a problem with you, love. It's the freak”  
John stepped forward again, opening his mouth to speak but Sherlock put a hand on his chest to stop him.  
“Leave it, you don't need her thinking you're a freak too,” Sherlock said quietly. Sally had lost interest already and looked as if she was about to wander off, pleased with her comments.  
“Do you think I care about that, Sherlock? Is this why you don't want people knowing about us?” John asked, narrowing his eyes at the taller man's face.  
“People don't understand me, and it's bad enough that you're living with me,” not looking John in the eye.  
“For god's sake Sherlock, I don't give a shit what they think. I want everyone to know how I feel about you,” replied John, his voice verging on anger.  
Sherlock kissed John right there in the kitchen, dramatically pushing him against a worktop. At least 5 Yarders were in the room, including Lestrade who wolf-whistled, but neither of them cared. 

After that, John sat in Sherlock's lap in the living room and they kissed like teenagers, stopping only to talk to Greg who was only too was pleased they were getting on with it.  
They kisses were heated and tense if a little sloppy; John couldn't help but think of Sherlock's comments from before they left the flat, squirming a little at the thought.  
“New game,” Sherlock murmured in John's ear, “Anderson is trying to come over. If I can guess what he's gonna say, I get to give you a blowjob in Lestrade’s bathroom.”  
John felt his mouth go dry as thoughts of Sherlock's lips filled his head, but he quickly responded, “Go on.”  
Sherlock finished whispering his predictions in John's ear just as Anderson approached.  
“I hope you guys are happy. I lost £50 on this,” gesturing at their entwined bodies. John was already standing though and pulling Sherlock to his feet though, making his excuses to Anderson. 

Sherlock took John's hand leading him upstairs, both of them stumbling a little. The music was quieter up here but they could still feel it thudding below. A quick glance in either direction, and Sherlock opened the door, pushed John in and closed the down behind them. John was half-hard already and felt Sherlock was too when he pushed him onto the sink opposite the door and stood between his legs. With Sherlock half sat, they were the same height and John used the opportunity to hold Sherlock's face as they kissed deeply.  
“How do you do it?” asked John breathlessly.  
“What? Turn you on or guess what Anderson is about to say?” Sherlock joked between kisses, “I knew there was a bet, and I knew Anderson didn't think much of us. I saw him hand notes to Lestrade, and I really wanted you.”

They grinded against each other and Sherlock rutted involuntarily when John grazed his teeth across Sherlock's bottom lip. He reached for Sherlock's trousers and starting undoing the button but Sherlock broke the kiss, breathing deeply, his lips wet and swollen.  
“That wasn't the deal, it's your turn,” he said quietly before dropping to his knees. He undid John's jeans with a struggle. His hands weren't as skilled while under the influence of a considerable amount of drink. He took his time gently touching and running his fingers over John's cock through his boxers until John was rock hard and murmuring expletives. He then removed John's cock from his underwear and didn't hesitate in placing his lips on the head. A moan escaped John's throat, and pleased with this response, Sherlock’s lips parted and slid along John's considerable length. John placed his hands on Sherlock’s head and pushed his fingers between the now limp and messy curls. He'd never seen anything beautiful as Sherlock Holmes on his knees, eyes staring at him hungrily with red lips wrapped around his cock. 

Greg Lestrade had been very pleased to have his crime-solving duo turn up to his party, especially as neither were natural party types. He was equally pleased to find out about their relationship and see them kissing in the corner of the busy room. He was less pleased to walk into his own bathroom to find John with his cock in Sherlock's mouth. John and Sherlock were aware of someone outside the door just a second before it opened, and there was no way to disguise what they were doing.  
“Fuck fuck fuck,” Lestrade shouted, trying desperately to look away and close the door at the same time. Sherlock jumped away from John and John scrambled at his trousers. Lestrade had finally gotten the door closed and was sat against the outside, howling with laughter. Sherlock too began to laugh, resting his face on John's thigh as he giggled away. John chuckled too against his better judgement. All three of them were laughing from a mixture of embarrassment and nerves.  
“Fuck,” said John, placing a hand on Sherlock’s still giggling shoulder.

John and Sherlock emerged from the bathroom a minute or so later. Greg, who was clearly to drunk too care, and would probably have more to say when he sobered up, just started laughing again once he saw their pained expressions.  
“Your hair is a bit all over the place there Sherlock,” he said, to which Sherlock looked away but smiled.  
“It's getting a little late, we're thinking about heading home,” Sherlock said, not looking anyone in the eye.  
“Sure. Late. You've clearly got something better to be doing. I'll see you later though, thanks for the gift.”

John and Sherlock stumbled outside with their arms around each other into the cold night, laughing off the tension. John rang for a taxi while Sherlock hung off his arm, still giddy. Although they would both live to regret their actions when the Yarders found out about what happened, it didn't matter then. They had an amazing night together. And needed to remember to lock doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks! Again, I'm a lesbian so I'm sorry if the sex is really bad.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is missing

Sherlock Holmes was missing. Well, not missing. But gone. He had walked out of 221B, the flat he had shared with his boyfriend, around 8 hours ago, and now it had started getting dark. The weather was warm though, which John was grateful of when he glanced again at his watch then his mobile. He didn’t know how long he’d be gone for, because truthfully they’d never had a fight like this before. In fact, they’d never had any fight that had made Sherlock leave the flat before. 

Sometimes Sherlock would do something irresponsible or irritating and refuse to apologise because he was feeling stubborn, and on those occasions John would walk out. He would normally go to the pub near Greg’s flat, have a few pints and then come home smelling of beer when Sherlock would be ready to say sorry and would understand that he’d done something to upset John. They’d kiss and make up and it worked. Other times, John would say insensitive things (normally when he was tired and/or grumpy) to Sherlock who would dramatically stomp around the flat in a whirlwind of silk dressing down and safety goggles. John would normally work out what he’d done to upset his boyfriend fairly quickly. He’d apologise, Sherlock would act like he didn’t accept it and then smile as John pulled him in for a kiss and he’d know that John never meant to hurt him. They’d been together for over 3 months and they could deal with these fights. But this wasn’t like either of those.

***

John walked heavily down the corridor between Sherlock and his bedroom into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on, yawning as he did so. He got out two mugs at first, realised Sherlock wasn’t home and put one back. He stretched his arms above his head, grateful of his lie in. He’d fallen into bed as soon as he’d got in from the surgery yesterday, and can barely remember Sherlock crawling in bed next to him many hours later. 

He had settled down to his paper and tea in his usual armchair when Sherlock arrived, looking dishevelled and strangely stiff. Immediately worried, John stood and kissed him good morning.  
“Everything alright?” raising his eyebrows a little at Sherlock.  
“Fine,” Sherlock said but his voice seemed stiff as well as his posture.  
“Sit down, I’ll make some tea,” John said, still looking worriedly over at Sherlock, “What got you up so early anyway? Didn’t even feel you leave.”  
Sherlock sat down heavily in his armchair without removing his coat, wincing slightly as he did so. John saw this straight away and went over to Sherlock, who was now looking sheepish.  
“What’s wrong, Sherlock?”  
“Well, the truth is that I’ve been stabbed,” a look of horror immediately entered John’s face but before he could say anything Sherlock continued, “Nothing bad, in the leg and it was very shallow.”  
“God, Sherlock. Are you okay? Can I see? Should we go to the hospital?” John had by then noticed the dark stains on Sherlock’s right trouser leg and the damage to them on the seam at the outer thigh. He helped Sherlock stand and pulled down his trousers to look at the wound.  
“Oh, it’s been dressed,” kneeling next to his boyfriend and looking at his leg, “and stitched?” he looked up questionably at Sherlock.  
“Yeah, well I went to A&E and got stitched up.”  
“You what?” John’s tone immediately switched to anger in spite of the situation, “You got stabbed and went to A&E and got stitched up without even calling me?”  
“Yes, well, you were tired and I’d had a thought about a case so wanted to investigate and then, well, this," gesturing at his leg.  
“First of all, you don’t go on dangerous cases without me. Second of all, you do not get stabbed and not call me, your boyfriend, your boyfriend who was an army doctor. Third of all, you do not go to A&E and then get a cab home and decide that this is the time to tell me about any of this.”  
Sherlock looked taken aback by all this, but his face quickly changed to defensive.  
“I’m not your child, John. I am your partner, yes, but I am still an adult who can seek medical attention without your assistance or approval.”  
“It’s not about assistance, it’s about support. I’m supposed to be with you through emergencies and everything else for that.”  
“It wasn’t an emergency it would’ve taken hours to bleed out from such a wound,”  
“You thinks that’s the point?!” he was practically shouting now.  
Sherlock was just as loud and painfully sarcastic when he replied, “Well sorry! I guess I just don’t need you at my side for every moment of my entire life. I thought I was doing a good thing leaving you to sleep.”  
“I don’t want to fucking sleep while you’re in a hospital waiting to get a stab wound stitched!”  
“Well you did, get over it,” Sherlock slumped back down into his arm chair trying his best to show no signs of pain jumping in his leg.  
John turned away and walked back towards the kitchen, muttering under his breath. “You’re unbelievable, Sherlock. I can’t cope with you anymore.”  
Sherlock had gone quiet and by the time John had realised what he’d said, he could almost see Sherlock skillfully constructing walls behind his eyes. John had opened his mouth to apologise, to beg forgiveness, but no words had come out.

Mrs Hudson noticed the tense atmosphere as soon as she walked through the door they still weren’t in the habit of locking.  
“Good morning, boys” she said cheerily but she looked around and her voice had changed when she continued, “Is something the matter?”  
But Sherlock was already clambering to his feet, his expression dark.  
“No, Mrs Hudson, I was just on my way out actually,” he kissed her on the cheek and gave a forced smile, “The criminal underworld never rests.”  
Her question, “Is John coming?” was answered by the down to the street downstairs swinging shut.

John was still stood horrified through all this, all anger from a moment before instantly dissipated, and when he finally heard the door slam shut, he collapsed into his arm chair silently. Mrs Hudson didn’t dare ask what had happened but just went over and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.  
Eventually, after a few moments, she spoke, “He’ll come back to you, John. He couldn’t stand to be apart from you,” before quietly leaving the flat, and John to his thoughts.

John immediately got out his phone and called Sherlock’s, hoping it had been in his coat pocket when he walked out. He couldn’t hear it ringing so it likely was, but Sherlock did not pick up. It rang out, and John left a voicemail, his voice serious and laboured, “Sherlock- it’s John. I’m- I’m so sorry, I know that’s not good enough but just come home?” his voice broke, so he took a breath to compose himself, “And I’ll explain. I didn’t mean it and I need you to know that. Please come home.”

He received no reply, and in the end John got dressed and tried to busy himself with all the jobs him and Sherlock never did anymore because they were too busy solving crime or being together. He actually put some of Sherlock’s chemistry equipment away in the cupboards, but then he was worried that Sherlock might see it as trying to change him somehow, so after cleaning all the surfaces, he tried to put it all back in the same place. This was foolish, which he knew, as Sherlock would immediately see that it had been moved, but he did it anyway. He even tried to clean the bathroom, as that room had been neglected, well for as long as John had lived there, now he thinks about it. Why two fully grown men in their thirties couldn’t clean their flat was beyond him? He considered washing their sheets but when he made it to the bed they shared he couldn’t bring himself to remove the smell of Sherlock from them. 

John returned to the kitchen at about 3 o’clock. He was very hungry, but they had very little food and dare not go out in fear Sherlock would come back while he was gone. In the end, he drank a black cup of tea and ate a microwaved bowl of tinned spag bol. It wasn’t a terrible lunch but he couldn’t finish it, tension churning in his stomach. He stayed sat at the recently cleaned kitchen table, tapping his fingers on the surface and staring towards the windows. He checked his watch, and then his phone. Sherlock had only been gone 4 hours, that wasn’t long at all, he convinced himself, but the sight of his awkward movements because of the wound on his leg lurked in the back of his mind. 

It rained lightly for an hour then, and John’s mind wandered uncontrollably to where Sherlock might be. He rang Greg and Molly and the desk at Bart’s and even Mycroft. No one was with Sherlock or had seen him all day. Was he still wandering the streets somewhere? John couldn’t settle the uneasy feeling in his stomach for several hours more.

John went back to busying himself with tasks. He sorted out the bills they’d been stuffing into a draw for many months, working out which still needed to be paid. He went through some of the old papers that were still left in a box in the upstairs room from when he moved in. Just various old tax documents and bank statements that he’d kept because after over 10 years of adulthood he still didn’t know what he was supposed to do with them. He managed to waste 3 hours on this faked desire for organisation but eventually it didn’t drive away the dread that came in waves every time he checked his phone for messages. He dumped the unsorted documents back in the cardboard that had kept them up until now, and went back downstairs, and let the telly blare out light and sounds he didn’t take in. 

Sherlock walked through the door at 8:34. John knew exactly because he’d only just checked his watch and phone for the hundredth time when he heard the door opening. He stood up immediately and waited with bated breath as he heard Sherlock walk unevenly up the stairs to their flat. He walked in, clearly limping now, probably in considerable pain, refusing to look directly at John.  
“John, I’m sorry I’m so hard to deal with, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to be completely- well normal, so if that’s a problem for you then I understand if you don’t want to keep-”  
“Stop, Sherlock. I’m sorry, not you. You are difficult sometimes but I want to be with you through that, and I shouldn’t have said what I did, because it’s not true. I can and will always cope with you because- well,” he swallowed before continuing, “because I love you.”  
It was the first time either of them had said that exact phrase, although they had both meant it for a good long time. John hadn’t wanted to say it under such dark circumstances but he needed Sherlock to know how important he was.  
John continued almost immediately, almost trying to bury the all important words he had said, “I don’t expect you to forgive me straight away, or at all in fact, if you can’t, but hopefully-” his words were cut off when Sherlock crossed the room and pulled him into a deep kiss. They broke apart after several moments of bliss in the storm they’d both created in their minds that day.  
“I know we’re supposed to talk about these things, that it’s important, but I love you too.” Sherlock said after breaking apart. Before John could say anything else, they were kissing again.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a plan

5.  
John’s thumb grazed the small velvet black box in his jacket pocket. It burnt like a brand on his person and he wondered how good at deducing him Sherlock really was. Apparently he could predict his actions several weeks in advance, but then again he’d been surprised that John had shown any interest in him in the first place, so he couldn’t have been that good. Sometimes John wondered that despite seeing so much in the world, Sherlock was a little blind when it came to him. 

John and Sherlock were sat quietly in the back of a taxi. It was comfortable; John’s hand resting on Sherlock’s knee and Sherlock’s hand on top of that. They were on their way back from a spectacular performance by the English National Ballet, one of Sherlock’s guilty pleasures. John enjoyed the dancing but he especially enjoyed the wonder on Sherlock’s face as he watched. They’d picked up tea from Angelo’s (as they felt a little over dressed to sit in and were both tired anyway) and were not far from home. Their home. 221B Baker Street. London rolled past the windows and John glanced over at the man he hoped to make his husband, clearly still lost in the music. He would ask at home, the place that brought them together, the most important flat in the world. 

They were both relieved to get home. It had been a warm day and although the air was now chill, it was still very close and they would be glad once they were inside the walls of Baker Street, where it always seemed to stay cool and still. John put the bag of food down on the kitchen table and began unpacking it while Sherlock took his coat off, somehow more dramatised than usual, and John had no doubt that Sherlock was still performing to the violins in his head. He smiled. He was still amazed on a practically daily basis how much he could love this ridiculous man. They sat and ate and Sherlock talked animatedly about the ballerinas and once they were full of delicious food, John refreshed their wine glasses and they moved to sit on the sofa. Okay, John thought, I’m gonna do this.

“We’ve been living together like this for a long time now, and I have so many good memories here. So much excitement but also so many nights in with you. I mean, the night we spent looking for matching books in two seemingly well-read blokes’ collections, what was that? But anyway, everything I do with you, is enjoyable, and I used to think I just liked the life you led, but that’s not it. I love you, and I would love doing anything so long as I share the experience with you,”  
“I love you too, John. But I’m going to have to stop you there, it seems my brother is here,” Sherlock said, getting to his feet.  
“Mycroft? What do you mean he’s here?” But almost as soon as John said that he heard thuds downstairs and several sets of heavy footsteps making their way upstairs to the flat. He stood too, and Mycroft entered followed by his usual government bodyguards-meets-minions.  
Well it really was typical for least one Holmes brother to ruin his plans, so John wasn’t even really surprised.

“You’re needed,” Mycroft said curtly to his younger brother.  
“No, I’m not,” Sherlock was feeling mischievous after some wine and a pleasant evening  
“It’s an urgent and highly significant case. You must come with me,”  
“No, don’t think so,” Sherlock smiled inanely and you could almost see Mycroft having to control his frustration.  
“It’s of national importance.”  
John considered, not for the first time, how difficult it must have been raising these two in the same house, feeling a sudden rush of respect towards Mr and Mrs Holmes.  
“Don’t care.”  
“I’ll owe you a favour.”  
“Not interested,” Sherlock was visibly enjoying turning down his brother like this, but John recognised that Sherlock would take the case eventually.  
“Please, Sherlock. For me,”  
“All you had to do was ask nicely Mycroft, you know mummy always cared so much about manners,” Sherlock chuckled at his own joke as Mycroft just tsked, “Okay then, I’ll do it,”  
“A car will be waiting downstairs. Promptly, please,”  
“There it is, the magic word,” Sherlock looked over at John who had been watching over this interaction with mild amusement, “Come on, John, we’ve got a case.”

John sighed as the British government made his way out the room and Sherlock swung his coat back around his shoulders and took his scarf. But he grabbed John’s sleeve before he could leave, holding him back and speaking quietly.  
“Yes, by the way. I would’ve said yes,” Sherlock smiled, his eyes sparkling with quiet joy.  
“Yes to?” John narrowed his eyes up at Sherlock, “Oh you cock.”  
“The ring is half a size too large though. You might want to get it altered before you try again. I can’t wait to hear your speech, I’m sure it’s beautiful,” and with that, he gave John a full kiss on the lips and raced down the stairs after Mycroft’s agents. John stood in the doorway for a minute, shaking his head at his fiancee before following suit. After all, like he said, it didn’t matter how he was spending his Saturday evenings, so long as he spent them with Sherlock.

**Author's Note:**

> I live for your comments  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://quietasfolk.tumblr.com/)


End file.
